


P for Penelope (and B for Beau)

by nowherenew



Series: Rarepair Hell: Arthur Morgan/Paladin Danse Edition [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: A Cowboy and an Heiress Spitroast a Simp, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Multi, Paladin Danse is Victor Danse who used to be an O'Driscoll, Threesome - F/M/M, beau gray is a simp for his own fucking fiance, shoutout to victor who's twiddling his thumbs wondering when arthur will actually fuck him, yes this is the same universe as arthur/danse don't look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24408802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowherenew/pseuds/nowherenew
Summary: “Can I tell you a secret?” Beau has stars in his eyes, and it is two parts endearing but three parts exhausting.“Gonna tell me anyway, so go on ahead,” says Arthur.Grinning as though heaven lives in him, Beau gushes, “Penelope and I are practically already married. We have... sinned together.”At that, Arthur barks out a laugh. “Boy, you don’t know a damn thing ’bout sinning, but go on.”“We deflowered each other on a moonlit spring night, and it was beautiful.”“Did you eat it?”“What?”“Did you eat it, boy. Speak up.”“Eat what—”“My god. You need help, and I suppose I’m beholden to be a good Samaritan, so you run along and set something up with the three of us.”
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Beau Gray, Arthur Morgan/Beau Gray/Penelope Braithwaite, Arthur Morgan/Paladin Danse (mentioned), Arthur Morgan/Penelope Braithwaite, Beau Gray/Penelope Braithwaite
Series: Rarepair Hell: Arthur Morgan/Paladin Danse Edition [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140461
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	P for Penelope (and B for Beau)

**Author's Note:**

> This series will not be posted in alphabetical or chronological order; this fic takes place after Arthur has been frisky with Beau on other occasions.

The romantic ideal dictates that a man so lovesick as Arthur is for Mary would remember every detail of the forbidden time he shared with her. After all, he’s carried those memories and refused to put them down for so long that Mary’s photograph, despite the fact that it lives outside on his bedside table, collects dust like it’s in some attic. She stares at him just as kindly as she used to when the photo was taken. 

These days, though, he sleeps facing away. Or far away. Next to someone who decidedly does not wear dresses.

As far as Arthur had figured, he has a perfect memory of his time with Mary to torture himself with.

However, Penelope Braithwaite and all her layers have proven that Arthur does not, in fact, remember every moment of his time with Mary. Voting rights are important, but Arthur would jump at the chance to join a rally for a woman’s right to wear trousers. Much more manageable. 

Moreover, down in Lemoyne, women still have all that propriety and performative modesty to live up to, forget who won the war. Penelope’s dress is made for sitting on porches and reading, not walking a city street. Certainly not made for being stripped off by an outlaw. Maybe she should meet Sadie, that could set her right.

For now, though, he works with what he has. Nevermind that under her skirt is less fabric and more endless seafoam, riptide all hours of the day. She laughs at him, his inadequacy her entertainment, and he joins her, because is there anything more amusing than one’s own incompetence?

“Arthur Morgan, are you having some trouble?” All bells, sweet like those delicate pastries she brought with her—hospitality, always hospitality, even though it’s her own family’s vacation cottage—and no disappointment to be found. 

“Maybe so, my lady,” he says. Fool of a man, thinking all he needed to do was hike up the skirt and a petticoat or two. No, plantation heiresses need all the fabric in the known world, it seems. Though she didn’t explicitly offer help, he does step back to be less of an obstacle. He raises an eyebrow and nods toward Beau. “Perhaps your young man can help? All that experience you two have must come in handy, right?”

The boy—his twenty comfortable years have not made him a man, though he’ll be closer after Arthur finishes with him today—looks up when he’s mentioned, and his open mouth switches gears from absent-minded awe to the uncomfortable space between sputtering and silence. Finally, he gathers his words. Must not be easy, with his pants so tight on him. “I could certainly, um, if Penelope—”

Penelope waves her hand and shakes her head, beaming. “Oh, Arthur, you think Beau has deciphered this maze? I’ll take care if it, don’t you gentlemen worry.” She goes about loosing laces Arthur didn’t even realize were anything other than decoration sewn in place. 

While he learns, Beau relives; the boy watches her like he knows every movement by heart, and yet still the particular mechanics of it all are beyond him. Unbelievable. Whether or not she is a strong-willed, independent suffragette, a man should at the very least know how to undress the woman he loves. 

“Have Beau help you.” It’s a suggestion, technically, but it has the flavor of an instruction coming from Arthur’s mouth. “He should learn how. Least he can do.” The glance he aims at Beau has the lightest and least threatening of accusations tacked on, and the Gray looks away after a few seconds. A man can be sensitive without being pointless, and at least all that anxious energy demonstrates that he knows he’s lucky Arthur happened to come along and show him. 

While they work together, fingers playing between efficiency and affection, Penelope lays kisses on Beau’s neck, doesn’t even need to look at her dress to direct him. Arthur takes a seat in the armchair by the bed, upholstered with unnecessary patterns like everything else in this gaudy place. It’s comfortable and relaxing and it is a reminder that he cannot keep any of it. 

The two of them are both pretty. Well-fed, neatly groomed, polished as the pitchforks that may one day take their wealth away. Rather than follow his body’s call, Arthur keeps his hands away from his lap. For now, he is ornamental. He’ll be instrumental soon enough.

When they have unraveled her to the layer that is cream-white and crinkled, the part permitted to rumple because it does not expect to be seen, Arthur taps the wooden frame of the chair and stands. “That’s enough.” 

Beau’s neck is flushed, and where his shirt has been tugged out of the way, it blinks barely-blue where Penelope decided it should. Confidence becomes her. So will bliss, Arthur expects. They still have their fingers laced tight together, and it’s too sweet for Arthur to interrupt, so once he’s approached them, he takes care to offer his hand on Penelope’s free side. 

She stares at him, lips wet with her own spit. There’s some on her nose, too; she sure is eager for a proper Southern lady. “Yes,” she agrees, as though she heard his thoughts, or maybe she’s just that used to speaking her mind that she verbalizes every little inkling when she’s safe from her family and her people. Her fingers brush his wrist first, trail up the broad muscle at the base of his thumb, and then she gives him the privilege of holding her hand.

Since he’s putting on his best gentlemanly act today, Arthur starts to sort his words to make them into a request to touch her. The process is barely halfway through when he’s pulled in closer, and she tilts her head up. “Aren’t you going to kiss me, Arthur Morgan?”

Well, that’s an independent lady for you. Sadie’s husband must have had quite a peculiar role in their bedroom, if the two women are as similar as Arthur suspects. If things keep going like that, he may not have to make all the calls. He supports her chin with his fingers, like a gentleman would, and finds her mouth without bothering with a spoken “yes.” 

At the moment Penelope realizes she’s dancing on a cliff steeper than she thought, she swallows, and he feels it on his knuckles. She leans into him, fearless, and tugs Beau forward from where he’d been leaning against one of the bed’s engraved cherry posts. Every moment Arthur observes the two of them, the more he sees how good an influence this woman is on him. Maybe this afternoon will jump-start a little bit of growing up for Beau, but even if Arthur had turned the boy down, Penelope would’ve led him down the right path. 

While he’s here, he’s pleased to be of assistance to the both of them.

Cheeks pink and mouth even wetter (she is something, and she does not belong in the society where she is held prisoner), Penelope ducks out from their kiss and grins. “Beau’s been talking about you,” she sings, lifting their joined hands as though Arthur doesn’t know who she’s talking about. “Rhodes has been someplace interesting since you arrived, Arthur Morgan.”

“Interesting’s some way to say it, Miss Braithwaite.” Still ornamental, then. Smalltalk is hardly anyone’s idea of appropriate foreplay, though, and even if it is for their social class, Arthur doesn’t much care. They’re all borrowing something from one another today. “Now, I hate to separate lovebirds, so young master Gray is free to join you, but if you could sit on the bed, please.” 

Penelope pulls Beau along, the way a woman does to a man she knows she owns, and plants them both on the side of the bed. She kicks her legs back and forth, and she radiates the kind of self-satisfaction you don’t even know exists outside of books until you see it. 

Underneath all those skirts, she’s wearing white cotton trousers. What, then, is the goddamn point? Admittedly, it’s appropriate for a professional heiress to have a less-than-accessible cunt. Propriety, and all that. The rich have far too much time on their hands, in Arthur’s opinion, if they spend it mythologizing and politicizing sex all at once. Creative, but pitiful. He sits beside her and unlaces her corset. Thankfully, it’s the same engineering as the rest he’s seen, even if it’s sleeker and unstained. 

“Beau told me about you, too,” he mutters into her hair. For now, it’s still done up in status and braids, but they’ll get it down. “Told me about the kinds of wickedness you lot get up to when you can get away with it.” 

The last tie falls open and she is free, but he doesn’t move to dispose of the garment, just lets it rest on her. Whale bones, maybe. It’s more flexible than metal. “But do you know what I was surprised to hear, Miss Braithwaite?” Her hips become home to his hands, and then he ventures further, pushes his palms onto her thighs and waits for any protest. None comes.

In fact, she parts her legs just a little, just to lean her weight into his hands. “What surprised you, Arthur Morgan?” She squeezes Beau’s hand and then shakes her wrist until he lets go, and she flexes her freshly-freed fingers. Arthur doesn’t need to take his nose out of her hair to see her grab Beau’s thigh, high enough that it pulls his pants tight over him. 

The lady really knows him, then. Maybe they’d stolen more evenings than Beau wanted to admit. Misguided attempts to preserve her respectability, perhaps. Either way, it’s good to know. She can show him what works.

Arthur breathes on her skin, lets his beard settle against her until she shivers. Ticklish? A tilt of his chin has her shoulders tighter, and a sharp sigh leaves her. Ticklish. Before he lets her have the gratification of knowledge, he takes one of his hands from the cotton on her thighs and pets the back of Beau’s neck. 

The boy really does have his desires all over his obvious little face, because it’s hardly five seconds before he’s lolling his head back against an outlaw’s filthy hand, the weight of all that anxiety spilling slowly between Arthur’s fingers.

When Arthur grips Beau’s hair in his fist, it spills quicker, and then all at once, and it is no more, and he is free from himself. If that’s all it takes to bleed his stress from him, Penelope is looking at a very fulfilling life with a very strange husband. “Beau here told me that he’s never put his mouth to you.” Before either of them decides to helpfully point out how young they are compared to him, he adds, “To your pussy. My lady.”

Against his knuckles, Beau’s scalp gets warmer, but he’s too smart to try to defend himself. Part of Arthur’s conditions to agreeing to this was that they’d talk about everything ahead of time. Of course, Penelope did not share his bizarre obliviousness to oral sex; she’d read about it in a book, she said. 

Doesn’t really matter to Arthur if that’s true, though it would undoubtedly matter to Beau. 

Still, Beau knows he’s here to learn how to be a bit less of a fool, not just enjoy himself. This is education. A fine woman like Penelope doesn’t deserve the burden of teaching a man something he should’ve at least  _ considered _ . For an “artistic type,” Beau’s creativity is certainly hindered by his status. Puritans on the plantation. That might be a good book title, but Arthur is not a fool and is not even tempted to try remembering it. (Journal’s half across the room, anyway. Not worth it.)

Cupping her thigh isn’t getting him any closer to being between her legs, so he shifts gears and pinches the fabric, tugging it outward to indicate his request. While he doesn’t want to let Beau have his faculties again, he does need to let go of the boy’s hair for them to proceed. Sacrifices can be big or small, and he’ll have him in pieces soon enough. “Beau, please take care of the lady’s corset. The chair will do just fine.” 

After he is sure his instructions are being promptly followed, Arthur sets his eyes on Penelope again. “Miss Braithwaite,” he continues, standing up from the bed and leaning his knee against the mattress between hers, “if it’s not too troublesome, I’d like to get those drawers and stockings of yours out of the way. Make you a little less pressed and ironed. Mind lending a hand?”

She does not lend a hand, aside from lifting her ass when Arthur needs her to. “No trouble at all,” she smiles, after Arthur has finished freeing her and tossing the fabric—her former captors—to the floor. 

Though self-impressed, she has intuitive kindness rarely found among members of her class, and she knows it is time to plant kisses on Beau’s face and comb fingers through his hair. She tells him he is lovely, and thanks him for being brave enough to invite Arthur, tells him she is proud. 

The way Beau melts for her is so complete that Arthur feels heat rising to his face unexpectedly, and he looks anywhere else. That’s private.

Hunger composes more of him than respect, though—at least, on this afternoon, in this cottage, with these two people far too young for him—so he leans down to grab Penelope’s calves and pulls them up, and she giggles, keeps her hand on Beau’s thigh even as she’s pulled closer to the edge of the bed. The poor boy is making life very difficult for himself by keeping those pants on. It’s so easily avoided, just—

“Mister Morgan—Arthur? I’d like to get undressed, too,” Beau chirps, and almighty above, there is more to teach that boy than Arthur has time for. 

“You’re a grown man, Beau Gray,” Arthur replies, raising his eyebrows. “You get yourself as undressed or dressed as you like. We’ll wait.” He doesn’t give Penelope an opportunity to agree or disagree with that choice. Peculiar little thing, sure, but Arthur wants him to have as much space as he needs. Rushing him will just make it harder for him to listen and learn. 

While Beau hops up and over to the chair to get rid of all the layers, Arthur slides his hands up Penelope’s legs to her knees, then down to her ankles. “I like that,” she whispers. Nodding, Arthur continues. She likes that. 

Beau is taking all kinds of a minute with those layers, and maybe it’s just that they grew up in this muggy swampland, but Arthur can barely manage a coat over his shirt in this awful heat. Makes bad decisions easier, too. These land-owning types should reconsider their clothing choices. 

Hope is alive in the both of them, defiant and thoughtful, and it could be inspiring, if Arthur were to allow it into him. Below him, Penelope continues to make him question whether she is a human being or a creature of divine mischief, because her smile is broad and comforting but it is deviousness incarnate. 

Like the fulfillment of a friendly threat, she curls her fingers under the hem of her chemise and pulls it over her head. It has tugged one of her braids loose, and he thinks to himself that it’s a step in the right direction for getting all that hair down. When she throws it towards the ground, there is a moment suspended in air, a stillness during which Arthur does not yet process how much skin is now waiting for his attention. There is only her gaze, that single undone braid, and the sluggishness of gravity as it meanders to put the undergarment where it belongs—far from her.

Then, when the chemise yawns against the ostentatious rug and billows to flatness on the ground, a switch is flipped, and then he does realize how much skin there is to appreciate. Say what you will of the rich, but money can’t buy tits like that.

“Christ,” Arthur growls, and she must know how good they are, has to know, because she expected something like that. That’s not the smile of a woman who doesn’t know what she’s working with. “You lookin’ for attention, Miss Braithwaite?”

Penelope tilts her head, braces her elbows on the bed so she can lie back without appearing passive. “I’m confounded as to what you might mean, Arthur Morgan.” She raises her eyebrows, looks down at herself. “Oh, those? Now, Mister Morgan, I had you figured for an experienced gentleman! Surely you can’t be struck by  _ that _ , now?”

Absolutely knows what she’s doing. Either she’s read more than a couple books or she is the kindest and most thoughtful liar in Rhodes, because words like that don’t come from Beau Gray’s summer flower rose or whatever the kid would label bottled sunshine. 

“S’pose you’ll have to forgive me, then,” Arthur murmurs while he slides an arm under her to pull her closer to the edge of the mattress. She is smaller than her personality by leagues, and he has not noticed until he moves to loom above her. The delight in her eyes is even more pronounced, though, reminding him that she knows she’s safe. Better than safe. In good hands.

“Oh? Well, before that, I suppose you’re obliged to give me reason to forgive.” Cocksure, they’d call her, if she were a man. Lord, but she would be the most insufferable man. A woman of the future, though. Beau wasn’t wrong. When Penelope arches her back to brandish her chest at him, he figures it might be the dime novels, because it’s a cliche move. 

They are all a little cliche this afternoon. 

Arthur takes the bait, though, leans down to drag his teeth on her skin and seal his mouth to her nipples one at a time, and there really is nothing like an excellent woman to get him desperate like he’s their age. It’s not just the tits, of course—she’s smarter than almost every single man he’s met in his life. The tits help, though. The hunger, too. At one point, she sacrifices balance to grab his wrist and plant his free hand on the other side of her chest. An angel. Beau has no idea how lucky he is.

Speaking of the Gray boy, he taps Arthur on the shoulder when he’s presumably finished getting undressed. It’s been a few minutes, so Arthur hopes dearly that he is just careful about folding, and not that he waited to return for fear of interrupting. There has to be an assertive bone somewhere in that body, right? “Good of you to join us, Gray,” Arthur says. “Why don’t you ask Miss Braithwaite what she’d like from you, all right?”

Though Beau grunts an affirmative and asks Penelope what he can do to please her, his hand doesn’t leave Arthur’s shoulder. Odd that he’d seek comfort from a man he hardly knows when the love of his life is right there, but to each their own. 

When she croons to Beau that “I’d like for you to join dear Arthur, please,” Beau’s hand tightens until Arthur is unsure just how weak the boy really is. Certainly looks stringy, but that’s a firm grip. He breathes a “yes” that could have been a loud breeze, and knocks Arthur’s hand away from Penelope’s breast.

If it weren’t the simple fact of biology that the harder a man’s cock gets, the more assertive he finds himself to be, Arthur would be proud. Unfortunately, Beau still has quite a ways to go. Quite a lot to prove, even. 

This, he must have done before, because Penelope reacts to him the way she hasn’t for Arthur, soft gasps and hair-petting and the word “please.” Young fools in love are a special thing, and if he puts as much energy into learning to suck Penelope’s clit as he puts into sucking on her tits, they won’t even need him.

Fortunately, at least right now, they do, and he can smell her want more and more now that her love has cracked her open. It feels reassuring to be unimportant. 

As she’s appreciated (what a fancy word for the mess they’ve made, and only just begun), Penelope pets Beau’s hair and scratches Arthur’s back. Every so often, she pulls Beau up to kiss her, and she wipes spittle from his mouth and sings wisdom to his ears, words that are for the two of them. 

Again, Arthur is relieved to be unimportant. This is supposed to be fun, not complicated, and it’s shaping up to be exactly what he’d hoped. Exception that proves the rule, he supposes, when it comes to fucking couples.

When Arthur has made a mess around his own mouth and it is in his beard, she taps his shoulder, and he looks up. “Kiss Beau,” she instructs, and god, that makes his cock jump to heights he hasn’t felt in years. No time is wasted on nodding, or sparing breath to speak; he turns to Beau and collides with him, holding that dark hair so tight that his knuckles bump against Penelope’s. 

The boy is noisy, groaning and gasping, and it makes both his partners smile. Privately, Arthur hopes on Penelope’s behalf that she does not have any fantasies of getting roughly taken by her husband, because if so, he’d have some sad news for her.

All the while, Arthur keeps a hand on Penelope’s breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers and following her weight. He is proud to see that Beau had the same idea. If this hands-on method of teaching Beau how to properly eat a woman weren’t a far more enjoyable option, he’d write “treat it like her tits” on a piece of paper and give it to the poor thing, and that would probably do the trick. 

But luckily, he is blessed with a confused and overeager young man and a very unconfused and confident young woman, and he is going to devour her until that boy knows how to do it himself.

On a rare break for air, Arthur glances at Penelope, migrates his hand from her chest to between her thighs. “Change of scenery, I think,” he announces, and leaves it open for her to shoot him down. Beau’s low whine doesn’t count as being met with opposition; he does not speak for her. “Miss Braithwaite, if you’d be so kind, I’ll have to borrow your husband-to-be.” 

The only answer he gets is an airy laugh that belongs to no one. “Kneel, boy,” Arthur says into Beau’s ear, and tries not to look too amused when the young man scrambles away and onto the floor within a fraction of the time it took him to get his clothes off. Once settled, Beau rests his arm on the bed and props his chin in his elbow to stare at Penelope. 

After he has Penelope’s legs open, Arthur grabs Beau by the hair and points at her pussy. “You got the rest of your life to look at the lady’s face, you better not waste the one afternoon you get a proper teacher for this. Eyes forward.” Beau grits his teeth and nods, but he is full of need, and he wants more. 

Young men of Beau’s age—males of any age—don’t respond well to being told to wait, so for the good of the many, Arthur kisses him again. It’s not for Penelope, it’s for himself, and Beau can tell the difference. Gives in more, lets himself need. “I hope you used what I told you to use this morning,” Arthur whispers into his mouth, and Beau nods. “Good, Gray. That’s good.”

It may be one of the great mysteries of the world, but something about strapping young men who have not enjoyed unconditional acceptance makes them respond to the word “good” like seagulls dive for breadcrumbs. It’s almost an echo of the O’Driscoll; Beau brightens like Danse does, and tension evaporates from him.

Maybe Arthur has more in common with Penelope than he initially thought. Street urchin turned criminal and plantation princess turned suffragette, and yet they both have unforgettable men who need them more than any wise person would allow themself to need someone else. 

It’s a lot to shoulder, but Penelope clearly doesn’t mind. Loves it. Needs Beau right back. Makes herself vulnerable for him, the complete opposite of what Arthur has been willing to do with Victor. Maybe it makes her the wise person, not the fool.

But that’s something to overthink later.

“Do you want to try first, or do you want me to start?” It’s a question for both of them, but Penelope has absolutely nothing to lose either way, so it’s Beau’s call. A rare moment in Beau’s life, undoubtedly, but it’s all his. Men deserve more choice than a life of prestige allows, but these two are likely to end up poor and happy. Arthur’s no fortune-teller, but he can smell it on them. They want what he wanted, what he wants. Unobstructed freedom.

“I, uh, I figured that—I mean, not that I don’t—if you could demonstrate, that might be most... appropriate, I—ahem. Proceed.” And look at that, the boy knows to interrupt himself when he’s being a proper idiot. Teachability is key. Arthur bestows him with another kiss, and pets his hair like he saw Penelope do it, and Beau does not melt for him the same way, and he is again relieved.

For a selfish woman, Penelope is still patient to wait through all their chatting and kissing. All that kindness and patience almost absolve her from selfishness, but not quite. It shines through, that distinct highborn indignance that bubbles when she is not the center of attention, when she coughs pointedly and lifts her hips, reminding Arthur of the whole reason he’s been invited. 

Well, perhaps not the entire reason. He likes to think that Beau’s a bit sweet on him either way, but that’s neither here nor there. Just a burst of energy to the old ego. (Literally, old. Especially in this room.)

Although Arthur considers himself a giving man, he’s opposed to counting oral sex as an act of giving. The philosophy doesn’t matter, and better left to men who care for ponderance over action. 

Especially when Penelope Braithwaite, heiress and woman from a world so far from his own there are no words to describe the distance, yelps without dignity when he hauls her closer and takes her cunt into his mouth. The reaction to his beard from earlier reminds him of her sensitivity, and he hopes she’s not terribly ticklish down here. 

If she is, he’ll keep her still. Beau will help. 

The noises fall to a gentler tune that follows the movement of her hips, waves and waves, and Penelope is all seafoam again. One of her legs leaves his shoulders, and it’s not the lady who moved it, but Beau. Curious and kind, he nuzzles her leg while drinking in the wordless lecture. 

Though he usually doesn’t need to hold a woman’s pussy open, it helps Beau see what he’s doing. At one point, the boy tucks Arthur’s hair behind his ear after it began sticking to the sweat on his cheekbone, and he won’t soon forget that strange compassion.

It’s the last thing he wants to do, because Penelope is sopping wet and she tastes like fresh want, but Arthur pulls himself from her to turn to Beau. “Got somethin’ to show you,” he grunts, and he sounds hoarse but his tongue is just heavier; it’s had a greater responsibility than words for the past few minutes. 

When Beau leans in and hovers by his mouth, he shakes his head. “You’ll first taste the lady properly, not off a filthy outlaw’s mouth.” Petulance flashes in Beau’s pout, but he gathers himself back into the sponge for knowledge he agreed to be.

Arthur points at Penelope’s clit, then makes contact, and smiles when she bucks up to meet him on the peak of a sharp gasp. “This is your guiding star, young master Gray. You learn how Miss Braithwaite likes this handled and you are on the best track a man can ask for.” 

Tersely, he grabs Beau’s wrist and brings his fingers up to the wonderful wet mess between Penelope’s legs. It is no small pleasure he derives from manhandling the young man into position, thumb up and fingers out. When he has Beau’s fingers brushing the rim of Penelope’s hole, she makes a noise that makes him a little less jealous that it’s not his tongue. Don’t have to be the cause if you can enjoy the effect. “Miss Braithwaite?”

“Yes! Don’t stop, you fools,” she snaps, and she sounds more angry at the ceiling than the two of them. Easily fixed, and she’s a problem-solver, so she’s soon on her elbows again to look into Beau’s eyes. They both dissolve a little, become softer and cleaner and something all their own, and the boy doesn’t need any more encouragement. Hell, Arthur’s been practically forgotten, as once Beau starts, he glides in like he’s done this before. 

Not that putting your fingers into a woman who’s already been getting thoroughly eaten out is much of a groundbreaking accomplishment, but for Beau Gray, it’s something new. New is scary, and sometimes new is good. He can tell what to do, as well, ghosts his thumb over Penelope’s clit and feels her crumple on his fingers. Arthur slides out from between Penelope’s legs and moves to kneel behind Beau. Taps the back of his head with just enough force to get his message across: your show now, boy.

And he’s no star, not yet, but he has the energy of a man who can grow to be an expert. Love, Arthur supposes, is a useful tool. The Gray boy is sloppy, licking up and down the space between her clit and her hole, and it’s only after a full two minutes that he remembers what Arthur told him. 

Lord, she really has her work cut out for her in the long run, but right now, Beau is licking her clit until she giggles, and then he starts to suck on it and she gets louder, starts pleading. Perched over the boy’s shoulder to observe and give direction (only occasionally needed, which is good), Arthur notices that Beau’s cock is hard and disastrously wet. 

If a man’s word is worthless, then so is he. A promise is a promise, and Arthur’s been thinking about this one for days. 

“You two, get on the bed. Gray, stay on your knees, don’t move that face. Sacred duty, boy.” If it had less truth to it, he’d find the statement funny. Penelope may be a woman who holds her resistance to authority as a pillar of her identity, but she is still young, and a tone backed not by old family wealth but by inherent confidence is apparently effective. Or maybe it’s Beau’s insistent pressure, as he’s urging her himself, not the bashful and anxious man he was two minutes ago.

Poor thing must be absolutely beside himself to get fucked. 

For half a second, that thought rests not here but at Clemens Point, and there’s a growing sliver of Arthur that is made of pure guilt. It’s all broader shoulders and a man who stands just as tall as him, who draws quick and trusts no one and spends more time by the horses than by the campfire. 

But that is not here. Victor Danse—the O’Driscoll, Arthur corrects himself—is not here.

Here is now, and now he has two people too young to have any interest in him and a young man who barely knew himself a few weeks ago has his rear in the air and his face between his love’s thighs and he has a goddamn plug in his ass just to make his and Arthur’s lives easier.

It is not a substitute for proper stretching, so Arthur takes time to fill him with fingers and play with him until he is somewhat familiar. Finds the spot that makes Beau weaker every time, listens to the bizarre sound of him blubbering against his fiance’s cunt, leaves twin half-moons in blue on the young man’s ass, works him open until he is ready, and slides in as easy as Beau’s fingers into Penelope.

He does not hold back, gives Beau the pace he begs for, watches Penelope’s eyes struggle with indecision of direction. After a point, they forget the very idea of seeing. Forget their purpose. She does, too, forgets who and how she is and becomes someone simpler, weak to her wants like any other human on this rock. Arthur’s balls get tight when he sees her move with his thrusts, and it’s almost like he’s fucking into that heat himself, and he is, has his own greedy hole to focus on filling. 

And fill it he does. It is wild and far from here, and he bends until he hovers above Beau Gray to say terrible things to him, litters the filth with praise, and the boy loses his balance, gasps while he’s still latched onto Penelope’s clit, and she howls through her orgasm.

Natural talent, Arthur purrs into Beau’s ear, and the clenching on his fingers and cum filling his ass pushes him past the need for tactile stimulation. Spills all over the bedcover and he hasn’t been touched once the whole afternoon.

Penelope may have her work cut out for her in more than a few respects. For today, she has a helping hand. They’ll make it just fine, though, and Arthur tells Beau as much. Whispers it into his hair while rocking against him, inside for as long as possible, until he’s too soft to stay. They will be just fine.


End file.
